


things taken/things lost

by tamsinb



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: 12x100, Blaseball is a horror game, Constrained Writing, Day X, F/F, Wyatt Masoning, happy blaseball is back so i can get back to writing frantically after each major event, implied mental manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamsinb/pseuds/tamsinb
Summary: Your name isn’t Wyatt Quitter. But that’s what they call you.(12 scenes of 100 words about two Wyatts, three shells, connection and disconnection, and not being the person you once were.)
Relationships: Wyatt Pothos/Wyatt Quitter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	things taken/things lost

**Author's Note:**

> format borrowed lovingly from lewis attilio, on medium as @pigeonize

* * *

**1.**

Your name isn’t Wyatt Quitter. But that’s what they call you.

The last name was your invention, an old insult assumed for the paperwork, its legitimacy immaterial to the people you sign for. You doubt they could pronounce your real one anyway.

The first name is someone else’s. Didn’t like the old one much anyway.

***

Her name isn’t Wyatt Pothos. But that’s what you call her.

Not sure of the last name. But you know where the first comes from.

***

Whatever your old names were doesn’t matter. Like many other things, they’re now something you are not permitted to see.

**2.**

After that your world was fragmentary, fleeting, but through it she stayed stable. You suppose that’s why you first loved her.

Through the long seasons of failure and resignation she stays and you call each other by your last names. You would never be the same but together you could think maybe that’s a good thing.

She doesn’t say much but that’s perfect because you can talk for hours, giggling and snorting and gleeful. You pass the times between games that way and when she takes up pitching you try your hardest during her games and hope no one notices.

**3.**

You’re on her couch crying into her chest, as you often are when it’s late and you can’t stop your mind wandering back to that one moment of pure connection and the loss that followed. She doesn’t miss it like you do. You say “I love you” over and over trying to make it permanent.

Then: a sound like roaring. Your roof is torn into splinters and falling debris.

Something tears her into the air. She grabs for your hand and misses, scratching your face.

You can only watch as she disappears. From the sky falls a rounded oblong coffin.

**4.**

You want to do what you’re best at and quit. But play must continue and you’d seen others try to leave. You don’t want to die.

Death happens often these days and things keep moving. Your team brings in a machine to pitch and things keep moving. You lose and you party and still things keep moving.

Loss follows everyone these days. But some things have a pattern and you can follow the eyes of the crowd and see how they coordinate.

You know what it feels like to lose things.

And this isn’t that. She was  _ taken _ from you.

**5.**

You had long ago adjusted to a world where peanuts fell like rain. But it had never been anything like this. They fall like comets now, like avenging orbital strikes, your team huddled under doorways like it was an earthquake. The earth  _ is _ shaking.

You see the peanuts fall and one of them looks like hers and you’re consumed by how lonely it must be in there for her and you’re out of the dugout before anyone can stop you and you jump for it. Impact.

And then. Everything goes dark. And it stays dark for a very long time.

**6.**

You step out at the behest of the voice you only now realize you’d been listening to.

It asks you to play the game and you think you remember how to do that.

Your batswing crackles mad with energy and you think if good players feel this way all the time it explains why they look down on people how they do.

You’ve been called for a purpose. It seems to be destruction: of the other teams and what the fans have built. Revenge serves them right.

Pothos is there and after too long you’re united in thought and purpose.

**7.**

Blessed time after your victory to be with her in liminal space, half heaven half hell.

She never was very talkative but now she’s not saying anything which is fine because you think the part of you that listens to others died at some point.

“I missed you.”

“How’d it feel batting again?”

“Whose guts do you think it’ll let us rip out next?”

She doesn’t say anything so you imagine her response. You laugh. In your head she’s funny.

You wait to be called again, luxuriating in your unity. This is how things should be. How they should remain.

**8.**

You’re called upon once again. Another pitiful team stands against you.

You hit a single. They go up like flashpaper.

You turn to Pothos for approval. She smiles and nods and then the ground opens on the field and armies of the dead emerge and together you face it, always the two of you together.

Until.

Something you don’t expect happens.

You lose.

And your god dies.

The sound of its demise echoes and you feel yourself losing connection yet again; no, it’s being  _ taken _ again. You reach out to her like she did you and again it’s too late.

  
  


**9.**

You fall. And you hit the ground hard.

A new team, new to you and the league, and you wonder how long you’ve been gone before they tell you they’re just as new as you are to them.

And you play a season, perfunctory, and she pitches against you twice, both shutouts ‘cause let’s face it she was always the one with the skill-

In the first game you wave to no response. In the second you swing as if posessed. To no response.

After each game you try to slip into their locker room to find she’s already left.

  
  


**10.**

Rest. Lots of it. Years by some counts, months by others. You wander and see what changed in your absence. The answer: too much. Too little.

A few texts to Pothos, unanswered, unread. You give it up quickly.

Tokyo’s not that far from where you grew up, fast by boat. Faster by plane. You take neither option.

You practice batting, hoping desperately to improve and never getting there. You stop when you realize you miss the way that foul power felt in your swing.

Your life is dull, long, and lonely. You wonder if you ever actually left that shell.

**11.**

Games start again and they feel different. You feel different.

Something in the air.

You play the Spies and they score 12 points in three innings. Unanswered. You stand on the field and scowl. Nothing you can do about it.

Bottom of the inning. You step up to the plate. You’ve already given up.

Then, you realize. It’s not something in the air.

It’s something in  _ you. _

You raise your hand towards nobody important on their team and a shell emerges from thin air around him. You hope he has fun in there. You sure did.

You hit a single.

  
  


**12.**

You check your eyes in the mirror. Not blank like they were but give them time. You smile. It burns.

She comes to check on you and when she looks at you, you know she sees who she was. When she looks ashamed at it you send her away.

You aren't the person she loved anymore. And she isn't the person you need.

You know what you need and you carry it in you now.

The person you loved and the time together you spent is gone. It died with the god and like a god it will never die.

**Author's Note:**

> my finger slipped and i wrote this lol. okay that's not fair, i had been playing with a take on pothos/quitter in my head for a bit and this was a great impetus to do that. i hope more bad stuff happens to my faves!


End file.
